


Dispatches

by evilmaniclaugh



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Descriptions of Injury, M/M, Pre-Slash, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-09
Updated: 2015-08-09
Packaged: 2018-04-13 19:57:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4535313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evilmaniclaugh/pseuds/evilmaniclaugh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post season two. Athos discovers that command weighs heavy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dispatches

**Author's Note:**

  * For [misanthropiclycanthrope](https://archiveofourown.org/users/misanthropiclycanthrope/gifts).



Being in command was much as Athos had expected it to be: vexing, worrisome, but most of all a very personal challenge. Despite his initial concerns, the men found it easy to take orders from him. He’d been leader of his own small troop for many years now, having to rein in d’Artagnan, Aramis and Porthos for a variety of different reasons, but charging a regiment of soldiers with the duty of waging war and risking their lives was something that often made him physically sick, especially when he was forced to send his dearest friends into the maelstrom. They had each suffered injuries during the many battles that had taken place and although all three were still walking after their most recent encounter with enemy forces, Athos knew that they were exhausted and scarred from the fight.

This skirmish had been brutal. Both sides had lost countless numbers and though the Spanish had been routed, it seemed to Athos that no one could count this as a victory. He needed to send a report of their success back to Paris, but his usual dispatch riders--the youngsters of the regiment, a drummer boy and two stable lads--had all lost their lives. The rest of the men, having finished burying the dead and tending to the sick, were laid listlessly around camp, eating and talking quietly. No jubilant songs would be heard in the ranks tonight.

Sleep evaded him and perhaps if he hadn't been so exhausted, Athos would have realised the massive error of judgement he was about to make. A captain did not desert his men--it was unthinkable--but he had weighed matters up and come to the conclusion that not one member of the Musketeers was fit enough for the long ride to Paris and so, as far as he could see, he had no choice but to act as messenger himself. Writing a brief letter of explanation, he left it in his tent and went to the stables. His own horse was as tired as the rest of the regiment and so, instead, he mounted one of the spare animals and rode quietly out of camp.

He took the mare to a gallop as quickly as possible, knowing that to tax her now would be safest for both of them. In a day they would be back on home soil and he'd be able to relax a little, but the plan was to get to the border before dusk set in.

All was going well and he was making excellent time. The fields and lanes were deserted except for a few peasants who barely took notice of the solitary rider. A dreadful lurch and scream from the horse then put paid to this good luck, and as they went down in a horrifying collision of flesh, Athos knew he was in terrible trouble, even before the sickening pain and snap of bone. The heathland had seemed like solid terrain, but he'd not taken into consideration the abundance of rabbit burrows. His own horse, Roger, had eyes like a hawk, but this mare was not so observant, or well schooled. She was also a goner. Athos considered the odds of attracting unwanted attention, but he could not allow her to suffer. A musket ball to the side of her head brought an end to the agony she was in and Athos weighed the pouch of lead in his hand and wondered if it would be a couple of ounces lighter before the day was out. 

Filling his satchel with wineskin and rations, he dragged himself to safer ground, amongst the thin cover of the forest edge, and then bivouacked down. He would not be making further progress on this journey. The pain in his left leg was extreme and after removing his boot with difficulty he could see bone through the torn skin. There was nothing for it but to make his peace with God and pray for the strength to do what he must. An end was something he had once longed for, yet now that it was in clear line of sight, it didn't seem quite so attractive.

Amused by the irony of this, he took a swig of wine from the skin and chewed at a biscuit for something to do. He had a feeling it would be a while before he found the necessary courage to meet his maker, though the pistol was loaded ready by his side for when the mood came upon him. Lighting a small fire, he burned the scrolled messages and then waited for night to fall.

As the day faded out, he let memories overwhelm him and wished that he had been a braver man. At least then he would have _known_ and would die with knowledge in his heart and the truth on his lips. If Anne had waited for him at the crossroads, it would have brought about closure for both of them, although perhaps her _not_ being there was closure in itself. The kiss they’d shared had been lust filled and fueled on adrenaline, but afterwards, it was not to her that his thoughts had turned. He would not leave the garrison, his men, his friends. His love. 

*

"It's not like Athos to be so late to breakfast," said d'Artagnan, munching on a thick slice of buttered bread.

"I'm hardly surprised. I suspect he has a rather large headache," said Aramis. "He has enough wine stowed away in his trunk to keep the entire regiment happy for months."

"D'Artagnan's right though," said Porthos, stretching taut muscles. "It's not like him. He's been doing good ever since he took over command."

"He's always good; he's just usually drunk with it," said Aramis, smirking when Porthos glowered at him. "I'm teasing, my friend. Go see where our belovéd leader has hidden himself."

Ignoring the minor injuries from battle and the general aches and pains that were part and parcel of war, Porthos leapt to his feet and approached Athos' tent.

"Morning, mon Capitaine," he said, tying back the canvas flap. "Rise and shine. The men are all breakfasted and are awaiting your orders for the day." The tent, however, was empty. "Athos," yelled Porthos, though he knew it was pointless. Maybe the man had taken ill in the night and was in the latrines.

The letter, placed carefully on the cot blanket and weighted down by a carved regimental seal, was not something Porthos wished to see.

"Athos, you silly sod," he grumbled, striding out of the tent and ripping open the paper. "What have you gone and done now?"

He scanned the elegant handwriting, making his way through camp to where his friends sat around a fire. "He's only taken the bloody dispatches to Paris himself. He reckons he has need to speak to Treville personally, though that's likely bollocks." He was furious. Out of his mind with worry. "I'll tear the blighter a new arsehole when I catch up to him."

"General Delacroix will be none too happy when he finds out," said Aramis, redressing his leg where a musket ball had strafed him during battle. "How's your head, d'Artagnan?"

"Sore," admitted the young man. "Though at least my adversary used the blunt end of his sword."

"It's a relief that no one taught our enemy how to fight," smirked Aramis. "The sharp end would have caused you far more problems. If you'd had any brains to damage, that is."

Despite the banter, Porthos knew they were as worried as he was over Athos' rash decision making. It was unlike the man to have behaved so irresponsibly and all signs pointed to him being exhausted, overwhelmed by this duty of care that constantly weighed him down. Porthos, however, _was_ rash by nature, renowned for charging headlong into situations without a thought for his own safety and so, in order to perpetuate the myth, he gathered some supplies and headed straight for the stables. He didn't need to leave a note. Aramis would know where he’d gone. 

Athos had been his brother-in-arms for many years now and Porthos knew him as well as he knew himself, easily able to pick out the route he would have followed back to Paris. As he rode, he contemplated the strength of their relationship. There were never any ups and downs with them. He and Athos were solid. As reliant on each other as they were on food and water.

"Why did you do this?" he muttered. "You know I would have ridden those dispatches for you." Never mind that, he would lay down his life for the man and swear fealty until the end of days.

Not a scout by nature, Porthos was still able to detect that he was on the right path. There were clear signs of a rider having been through here recently, hoofprints by the river shallows where he'd stopped to water his horse and evidence of a small repast having been taken. It might not necessarily mean Athos, but Porthos knew that it was indeed him. He could sense the man, feel him in his bones, and he pushed his horse along, knowing the beast could take it. He shared the same warrior's heart as Porthos.

As dusk turned to night, Porthos slowed to a sensible pace, keeping his wits about him at all times, knowing that there were likely to be Spanish troops in the vicinity. All of a sudden his horse whinnied and veered off the path, disturbed by the looming shape in front of them that was blocking their way.

Dismounting, Porthos tethered his animal, who was unusually fretful, then lit a lantern and examined the dead beast. It was in regimental tack. Its leg was broken and it had been put out of its misery. There were signs of someone injured and moving to the cover of the tree line and, with his heart in his mouth, Porthos followed, nervous of what he might discover.

He found nothing but the dying embers of a fire and the indication that a scuffle had taken place. 

*

Feverish from pain, Athos had drunk too much of the wine and was dozing a little despite his discomfort. Returning to his senses he became aware of someone's presence and reached for his pistol, but was too late. A foot rested on the barrel, pinning it to the ground and unable to make a stand he knew he was at the mercy of these strangers. 

Moonlight showed him that these were not soldiers, but more likely a group of common thugs. Thieves most likely, out for what they could pillage. The leader gabbled at him in Spanish, a language he'd never bothered to learn with Aramis so proficient at it. This was ironic. He could read Plato and Pliny in the original. Could speak English and Italian as if they were his mother tongue, but none of this was any use to him right now. Picking out the words _French_ and _bastard_ , he wished that he'd made use of that musket ball.

Having checked the leather satchel for anything of worth, the thugs then hauled him to his feet and the agony from his broken leg was so intense that, mercifully, he passed out.

When he came to, he discovered that he had been tied to the narrow trunk of a tree. The thieves were gathered around a fire, chattering nineteen to the dozen, laughing and drinking large quantities of wine. Now that he could see them properly, Athos realised that they numbered no more than half a dozen in total. The rope bindings were loose and had he been able to walk, he would have easily found a way out of this. Still, it was worth having a go at some sort of escape. At least he might die in the attempt rather than be sold to the Spanish military and tortured for information.

Working at the knots with slow and steady movements, careful not to alert his captors to what he was doing, he freed himself and waited for the right moment. Half of the men were asleep by now, the rest were dropping off and he was about to make an attempt to get away when one of the group remembered that they had a prisoner and decided to have a little sport before bedtime.

Taunting Athos in Spanish, the man lost his temper at the lack of response and landed a boot to Athos' ribcage. The force of the blow was enough to throw him to one side and it became apparent that he had escaped the bindings. This enraged his tormentor whose shouting grew loud enough to wake the other members of his party and, one by one, they gathered around Athos, swearing at him, kicking him viciously and then dragging him to his feet. 

What they intended to do to him, Athos was uncertain. He had an uncanny feeling it was going to be anything but pleasant and was struggling to get away when there was a bellow of pure rage from behind them. It was a sound Athos knew well, but he'd never heard it so primal in its intensity. His blurred vision slowly clearing, Athos watched as Porthos slaughtered the Spaniards with brutal precision. Surrounded by bodies, unable to breathe for the ache in his ribs and the metallic scent of blood heavy in his nostrils, Athos saw Porthos falter at the last, fighting with one man and unaware of another about to thrust his sword.

Determined to keep Porthos safe at all costs, Athos searched the nearby bodies, his fingers landing upon the hilt of a dagger. Testing its weight, he held it by the blade and, hoping his senses would not fail him, threw the knife. It was not a killing strike, but it distracted the man long enough for Porthos to dispose of both assailants.

"I'd thrash you if you weren't half dead already," cried Porthos, kneeling beside him. "What damage is done?"

"My leg is worst," said Athos. "The rest is nothing."

"Nothing, my arse," growled Porthos, examining his ribcage and shaking his head. Taking his knife to Athos' breeches, he stared in horror at the broken limb. "I’ll splint this and get us back to camp. Aramis will see you all right."

"Would probably be best to shoot me as I did my horse," said Athos smiling. As faint as he was feeling, Porthos was still a vision to him. His hair and beard may have been matted with blood, his clothes dyed crimson, but he had never looked a more wonderful sight.

"You'll not die until you hear what I have to say to you," growled Porthos. "Now lie still and bite down on this."

The leather belt was shoved unceremoniously into his mouth, and Athos was wondering what telling off was in store for him when the pain grew from sickening to unbearable and, once again, he knew no more.

*

With Athos slumped against him at the front of the saddle, Porthos wondered if his brother would still be alive by the time they reached camp. Cursing him under his breath, he prayed for the man to remain unconscious until they were somewhere safe. 

God was not listening and an hour or so into the journey Athos jerked awake. 

"Steady now," said Porthos, tightening his grip. He knew this would be agonising, but he had little choice. There was no easy way to get them back quickly.

Athos relaxed against him and Porthos heaved out a sigh of relief.

"You're a fool," he muttered. "You know I'd have done this. Gone with you, even if you'd been your usual stubborn self and insisted on delivering the report by hand."

"I couldn't put you through any more," said Athos. "Couldn't bring myself to do it."

"So you thought it best to abandon us and martyr yourself as usual," replied Porthos, angrier still now, his jaw set rigidly.

"I'd never abandon you," breathed Athos. "You are everything to me."

Porthos fell into confusion, trying to interpret what Athos had meant by this. Was it directed at him, or his brothers? Perhaps the Musketeers in general. "Athos," he said. "What are you trying to say?"

There was no answer other than an agonising silence and it remained that way until they reached camp.

"What has happened here?" Aramis looked in horror at a bloodied Porthos carrying the unconscious form of Athos in his arms. 

"The horse went down and him with it," said Porthos grimly. "Then he was set upon by some thugs. His left leg's busted and a few ribs are cracked too, I think. I splinted the bone as best I could, but I couldn’t do much with it as I had to get us back here on horseback."

"Bring him to the field hospital," said Aramis, a grim expression on his face as he led them across the encampment. "Lay him on the table then go fetch d'Artagnan. Once you' ve cleaned that blood off you then come and assist."

Aramis was now their official sawbones, so good at his work that he was often required to care for patients from the entire division. He was a miracle worker and would fix Athos up. Porthos had absolute faith in him.

After a swift but thorough wash in the river, Porthos returned to find Aramis and d'Artagnan bent over Athos, working on the broken leg.

"It's a clean break and you did a good job of tending to it," said Aramis, “but it will likely become putrid. If I amputate now then we have a better chance of saving him.” He looked up at Porthos. “What should I do?"

If it were up to Porthos, he would save Athos at all costs, but he knew in his heart that his brother would not feel the same.

"Don’t cut it off yet," he said gruffly. "He'd sooner die than suffer that." 

Having done all they could to help Athos, he was stretchered back to his own tent, the makeshift hospital ward already overflowing with patients.

"I'll look after him," said Porthos, taking the seat next to the cot and as he kept silent vigil he wondered again about that simple sentence from earlier. His feelings for the man had multiplied tenfold over the past twenty four hours and he prayed, for his own sanity's sake, that Athos would regain consciousness long enough for them to talk.

He slept with his cheek resting on the rough blanket and awoke to the feel of a hand on his head.

"Thank you," said Athos, weak but earnest. "If it weren't for you I'd be dead, or in the hands of the inquisitors. Aramis also tells me that it is because of you I still have my leg."

"I'll always fight for you," said Porthos sitting up, and then, in a quiet voice, he repeated Athos' words back to him. "You are everything to me."

Athos' eyes widened and he clasped Porthos' hand between his.

Leaning in close, Porthos rested his forehead against Athos’ and knew that if they never had another moment together then this would be enough. They loved each other and had spoken it loud and clear.


End file.
